He craved the privilege of talking about that night to some one who would understand, and who could be trusted.

Marion Rose, he felt, was the only person in the world he could tell.

He could talk to her--Lord, what a relief that would be! He could tell her all about it, and she would understand.

Her sympathy at that moment seemed the most precious thing in the world.
So he went outside and sat down again on the bench, and told her the exact truth about that night; how it had started in drunken foolery, and all the rest of it.

He even explained the exact route he had taken home so as to come into town apparently from Pasadena.
"Well, _what_ do you know about _that_!" Marion murmured several times during the recital.